Okay, now that you've read it, let's begin. And if you didn't, go back..you need to or this may not make much sense.

PocketMyriad's reminder of the fact that the skin is the largest organ of the human body set me to thinking about the way I (physically) feel some emotions on my skin. I wrote in my previous post about how I feel my writing in my skin, like electricity. That's not the only thing I feel on my skin.

When I'm upset or angry, my skin feels physically raw. I remember taking a friend with me to pick up things from the house of an ex-boyfriend who had ended the relationship very harshly. When this friend leaned over to touch my shoulder to comfort me, I jerked away, the way you might if someone touches a burn...I literally hurt to the touch.

Happiness feels like soft cool grass in my parents' backyard. I love to lay (lie?) in the grass and doze on a not-too-warm day. Usually, I start out reading out there, but I always wind up with the book on my chest, or my face on the book.

I'm discovering what love really feels like, on my skin. It's an interesting process because the feeling changes on me and it's honestly very new to me. Sometimes, it feels like...well...you know those boxes with the pins in them and you can press something into the pins and leave the shaped impression? You know..everyone does their face or their hand...it's "desk junk." If I could find a picture, I'd show you. (Take that as an open invitation to help me, if you can, please!) Anyway, sometimes it feels like I'm in a human-body size one of those boxes. Other times, it feels like the velvety leaves of my violets--soft and safe, and comforting (I inherited the violets from my grandmother). Lately, I've noticed a new feeling--it feels like the tingle I get on my tongue when I smoke a menthol clove cigarette (which is a favorite new--occasional--vice, thanks to The Man.). It feels cool and a little exciting. Hm..and it's touched with a bit of that skin-prickly feeling that I'm doing something naughty. Like I still sometimes feel when I have a cigarette, even though I used to smoke a pack and a half a day. Normally, not being able to "name" one sensation to go with an emotion would drive me crazy...but I'm enjoying this evolution for a multitude of reasons.

Switch gears...I promise the rest of this is connected.

I had a date with a guy a couple years ago who seemed great. Then the date happened. Oh my. His choice of dinner conversation was...awful.

Sex. And not just sex in a general way, though he did manage to talk about it academically for a bit. No, he proceeded to give me a run-down of how great his former girlfriends thought he was, how no one ever left unsatisfied, and "trust me..never had to fake it." I got details---"and then I'd..."---and was asked personal questions---"so if I touched you..."---that I didn't answer. Not because I refused to answer, but because he wouldn't give me a chance. I'm shy and don't particularly like confrontation, and often do just bear a situation rather than speak up. So, I sat there very interested in my food and silently willing the waiter to come back by so I could order another margarita and maybe drown my disgust.

Finally, he took a deep breath and said "So..tell me what you like." I let him have it. I assumed a husky, throaty voice, looked him in the eyes and said, "Well, what I really, really like is....a man who really understands how a woman's body works." He was nodding enthusiastically already. Puh-lease. "I'm gonna do you a favor, honey, and let you in on a little secret...and please think of this as a Public Service Announcement. I really love a man who understands that the largest sexual organ in a woman's body is between her ears, not her legs. And if you ever hope to really satisfy a woman's needs, you've got to get inside her head first." I then excused myself to the restroom before I could get too tacky. When I returned, he was gone. Oh darn.

Anyway, that PSA I gave him is SO true, and not just for me. Women tend to be less visceral about sex and men tend to have a hard time understanding that. It's why lots of women are more likely to read erotica than watch porn. Don't get me wrong, the physical aspects are wonderful, but women often find themselves needing more than just the physical, they need the intellectual side of it, the brainy sex, the feeling that we're here because you want the total package, not just the sex. It's not just about the skin.

So, with all that said...and thinking about synaesthesia, and skin, and...hmm...I better stop. Some things I just can't share, even with the relative anonymity of this blog. Sorry. *grin*

The prompt at Poetry Thursday this week was about bringing synaesthesia into poetry. In short, synaesthesia is a neurological condition in which the senses are coupled--so that one a person's perception of something with one sense is always connected with another sense. Hm..I'm not sure I got that down clearly. Check out this 'article.'

Anyway, I really thought I could run with this one. I read a book this summer called Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens which was about synaesthesia, particularly one woman's experience. It's fascinating.

I played with stuff all week..all week. I honestly think I've got a touch of synaesthesia, so I thought this would be so much easier for me than it has been. I think I'm just too focused on some other things that are distinctly not poetic this week.

So, I'm thinking about my writing. It's gotten better, more prolific the last few months. I thank the creative writing blogs and prompts that I've run across for inspiring me. I also attribute it to the people who have positively commented on what I have dared to post--wow, it's amazing what a little ego-stroking will inspire. Of course, at least some of the blame for my recent surge of writing can be placed on The Man--happiness will do that to a girl, you know?

But this post is supposed to be about synaesthesia. Allegedly. In thinking of my writing...one thing comes to mind.

When I write, really write, I feel the words on my skin. But I feel the words long before I "get" them. It's like static electricity. You know, when you get that little bit of a tingle on your skin and the hairs on your arm stand up a little bit--that feeling the kids giggle about when you do the balloon trick. It's how I know something's cooking, something's stirring.

When the words come, it's more intense. You know the feeling of the electricity in the air during a lightning storm? When the air is charged and you get the feeling that lightning could literally strike at any second, right near you? You can hear and feel the buzz and almost taste something a little coppery in the air. (Well, I can). I get that feeling when the words come at me. Sometimes, it's easy, like a slow-building rain storm. Other times, it's like it hits me...like those huge crashes of thunder your aren't expecting and shake the house, setting you off-balance for just a few seconds. Sometimes those nearly violent ones are God-sends, other times I want to run and hide.

This is my favorite picture of The WonderDog. My mother took it and he's actually staring out the door I just left through and crying.

I guess at this point, I'd had him about a year, maybe a little more and we were in hopeless "puppy-mommy" love. I've always been a dog person and can't imagine any home of mine without a dog (it was so hard those years before WonderDog!).

All of this to set up a poem that has nothing to do with WonderDog or dogs in general. *Grin*

Eyes out the windowrunning through dreams far more grandthan the day inside.The last couple of days have been pretty, and I've been stuck inside. I have windows...that look out over a beautiful...hallway crowded with students.

The prompt at Sunday Scribblings (which I'm doing on a Tuesday) is about writing instructions. The first thing that's come to mind everytime I read the prompt since it was posted (on Friday) is the song by The Fray "How to Save a Life." The lyrics are here It's haunting, for reasons I can't explain or understand.

I have a hard time with instructions. I don't always follow them. I don't know why. If I'm putting something together, or dealing with a difficult recipe, then sure I follow them. But when it comes to other things, I have a hard time with it.

Maybe I don't like the constraints.

Ok, I know I don't like constraints. A friend used to tell me "you can tell me to do something or how to do something, but not both." Hehe...I can't manage that either. If I ask you to do something for me, I'm likely to do the back seat driver bit as well. I try to hold my tongue, but yeah...that don't always work.

There's a fine line between instructions and parameters, I think. Tell me something I'm supposed to do and what the box the finished product should be in looks like but don't tell me how to get it in the box. (ooo, wordy). I'll get ya there, my way, in my time. Just wait.

I live on the Gulf Coast of Texas. We joke that we only have 2 seasons around here--summer and something that's not summer OR one of the other 3 recognized seasons. It doesn't really cool off around here until December, and sometimes not even then. I've got pictures of me riding my bike on Christmas Day in two different years. One year, I'm bundled head to toe. The other, I'm in shorts.

That leads me to...

Wish it would cool off,leaves would change, be nice out, butno such luck 'round here.and

In Texas, leaves do change.From bright green to dirty brownNo reds, or oranges here.Check out other posts about Autumn at One Deep Breath.

Okay, so this week, I'm cheating a bit..again. (I call it cheating if I never manage a poem for the prompt.) I wrote the post here last week, in a response to a conversation I had with someone important to me.

This week over at Sunday Scribblings, the prompt is to write about something we've researched. I've spent all week coming up blank. This morning, I was still at a loss.

So, I've been rereading some things on my blogs, looking at some other things, thinking about the evening I had with The Man last night (mmm), and cuddling with the WonderDog, thinking about my upcoming birthday. And it's come to me.

Easy Bake Ovens.

(I'm sure The Man is thrilled that thoughts of last night have led me to thinking about Easy Bake Ovens. I don't think there's really a connection, I'm just a little more A.D.D. this morning than usual.)

The one I played with when I was little looked like this, except I think it was more yellow. I got it as a hand me down from a neighbor girl. I can remember making peanut butter cookies in it ALL THE TIME. I loved it.

And there's even gourment cookbooks to use with your Easy Bake. Like this one with a recipe from Bobby Flay (they're right..I didn't know my Easy Bake could make food like this!), or the official one from Hasbro.

Websites are posting Easy Bake recipes, too. Take a look at cake mix replacement recipes at The FUN Place.

We're all guilty of it. The words we put on the page (the screen, the text message) may or may not reflect precisely what we think they do.

Words that are meant as innocent can be misconstrued as meaning more than you thought.

But that's the danger of writing, isn't it? Writers spend their whole lives crafting meaning and tone on white pages. Some can do it without much effort. Others (like me) agonize over it.

Words that are meant as innocent can be misconstrued as meaning more than you thought.

This is something I know, and something I really think about when in direct communication. But my writing, what does and doesn't get posted here or on my other blog, is done for me. Yes, I know others are reading it--I mean, I've put it out there for the world to see. But what a stranger takes from it is for them to decide. So, because I know what I mean in my writing, I've fallen into the trap of not crafting well.

Only now, someone I care about more and more is reading me. And some of my words have been thrown back at me. Not maliciously, just enough that I was left trying to explain what I meant. Well, more correctly, I was caught explaining not the meaning--that was clear--but more the implications of that meaning now.

I'm being vague on purpose...I don't really want to get into a discussion here of what exactly happened, because, honestly, it's not your business and I don't want your opinions. No offense intended, it's just that there's only one person's who's thoughts on this matter to me...and I hope that person knows it.

Anyway, I think this will be good for me, and my writing. It's prompting me to think more about intent and projected meaning. This is a good thing.

And (insert name here), thank you. I hope this will do some good things for us.

Wow. Beautiful poem, or mantra, or whatever. For the record, poetry is defined only by the writer--if you think it is, then it is. Worry about form some other time. *grin*

LOVE this line..."...if sanity is to be achieved..."I started writing, seriously in high school. Then stopped at 20 (during that 'blank' spot in my memory). I came back to it about 4 years ago. And even more so, seriously so, since May. I'd realized that I was avoiding myself, and doing so, for me, incited insanity.

This is how I release the pent up anger, pain, love (since I can't yet say that to The Man). Your mantra captured why I must write. Thank you.

Wow. Beautiful poem, or mantra, or whatever. For the record, poetry is defined only by the writer--if you think it is, then it is. Worry about form some other time. *grin*

LOVE this line..."...if sanity is to be achieved..."

I started writing, seriously in high school. Then stopped at 20 (during that 'blank' spot in my memory). I came back to it about 4 years ago. And even more so, seriously so, since May. I'd realized that I was avoiding myself, and doing so, for me, incited insanity.

This is how I release the pent up anger, pain, love (since I can't yet say that to The Man). Your mantra captured why I must write. Thank you.

Over at One Deep Breath this week, the prompt is to write tanka, which is...A Japanese verse form in five lines, the first and third composed of five syllables and the rest of seven.[Japanese.] (That means a 5-7-5-7-7 structure.) American Heritage Dictionary

I lurve playing with form. Like other writers I imagine, my writing notebooks/spirals/journals/grocery store receipts are full of bits that have the same words in various arrangements. I rearrange and rearrange until the breaking mimic my thoughts. And sometimes, until the shape on the page feels right.

Several of you, dear readers, may have noticed I don't follow directions very well...but when it comes to physical poetic structure (like syllables on a line), I'm excited by the challenge. I may still run amok with the rules of content, but I can't follow all the rules, now can I? (I love that word--"amok.")

Anyway, here's my offering. This one came way easier than anything I've written for any of these prompts lately.

Smiling local girlbig dreams in a small, small world,faith in the future.Waiting on the spin to stop.Waiting on the spin to stop, for her.

So, this morning I dropped The WonderDog at the new groomer's shop. The old one is harder to get into than MY hairdresser, and I schedule those appointments 2 months in advance.

I guess I wasn't completely awake when I dropped him off. When I said something about a schnauzer mustache (he's part schnauzer), I guess I wound up agreeing to an all out schnauzer cut.

Yep, extra short on top, longish on bottom. BIG eyebrows. Oh my. I'll add pics to this later. I've never seen him look so funny.

And now he's beat. Apparently, when he spends all day away from me, he doesn't go to the bathroom or rest. Our usual 10 minute walk took half an hour and after zipping about the house for 5 minutes, he's out like a light.

You're feeling lazy. What do you make? Pasta with bought-sauce. (I usually make my own on the spot.)

You're feeling really lazy. What kind of pizza do you order? thin crust canadian bacon and pineapple.

You feel like cooking. What do you make? I LOVED the beginning of Poet Mom's answer---"Do I really? How odd of me." No, really, I like to cook. I'm probably making some sort of kill you on the spot Southern comfort food.

Do any foods bring back good memories? Hm...lasagna always makes me think of the first year my dad decided we'd have lasagna for New Year's. Buttermilk pie always thinks of dinners at Grandma's.

sol·i·tude n.1. The state or quality of being alone or remote from others.2. A lonely or secluded place.

Solitude is something that I often welcome, and often struggle with. Tonight, I think I'm struggling, but it's a night I find myself needing it.

No one may visitthe navy moments. Quiet--hear, feel, the silence.(I suggest reading a couple of posts down to catch the 'navy' reference.)And...Solitude.....pull meout of solitary dark,back to light, to life.For more thoughts on solitude, visit One Deep Breath.

I never thought I'd write non-fiction. Well, not anything more than the training/semi-technical lessons I write for work or these blog posts. Non-fiction isn't my preferred reading material, unless it's a good biography or from some part of history I'm particularly taken with (right now, that would be royal Tudor England and the Salem Witch Trials). Non-fiction to me seems to take so much work. Checking facts, researching, organizing...ugh. Yes, I'm a librarian and researching really is my shtick, but that's work. Yes, I realize fiction writers put in a lot of research hours, depending on their story line.

Writing for me is has always been about release, escape. I don't want it to feel like work. I've never been drawn to writing something so involved that I have to do a lot of research to get the settings, situations, or details right.

But then, I started reading pieces of creative non-fiction. Oh this is so me. So...here's the first bit of what I've been working on. I've posted it before..a few weeks back. But since I've gained all kinds of new connections (readers), let's see what you think of it now...

Anywhere else wouldn't make sense.

I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My parents still live there.

My mother would kill me if she knew I'd told you that.

Maybe I should explain. In my hometown, there is no "wrong" side of the tracks. There's the side where everything is—grocery stores, banks, fast food joints—and the side where everything isn't. It just happened that way, no particular reason. I grew up on the empty side.

When I was little, and the world consisted of school and the neighborhood, I didn't notice or care. Kids are like that. Sixteen year olds are not. Suddenly, upon reaching that magic freedom age, the world multiplies in size. And living on the wrong side crimps your style. Inevitably, the people you want to pass your time with aren't over "here." No, they're over "there" - with stuff to do and knowing glances.

Life lesson number one--you need to figure out on which side the world says you're supposed to be. You don't have to agree, of course.

For more things people never thought they'd write, visit this week's offerings at Sunday Scribblings.

The Poetry Thursday prompt this week was "blue." I danced around it all week. I thought about the implied meanings in the color blue---sadness, calm (well, some shades), water, sky.

I looked at the sky Wednesday night and thought about how it perfectly matched the color my brother's eyes--this amazing midnight blue crayon color. He has this stained glass look to his eyes, but all in midnight blue.

I thought about my own emotions, and how I can't remember ever thinking of any one of them as anything but a shade of blue. From periwinkle to midnight to electric to cadet (yes, I know my crayon box very well).

I looked around my house, at all the blue in my furniture and decorations, and how, though I love other colors more than blue, blue is the one I seek for comfort.

So, I got around to this. I've never titled a poem before, but this one I thought needed something.

All My World Needing the world to stop~~navyLooking for escape~~wild blue yonderCreature comforts...connection with my family~~midnightWhat I feel with him~~blue violetDay in, day out drudgery~~cadetAt peace~~robin's eggCheck out the colors I mentioned, and others at the Crayola site.

Oh really? I've found myself wondering before how I'll explain my driving to an officer some days--on days I was thankfully not stopped. But, I've never, ever thought I'd blame it on something that wasn't there.

The Man and I met online. And one of the things that jumped out at me is that he had read The Five Love Languages. I was very impressed that I now know of TWO men who have read the book. Anyway, he asked what my languages were. I think I gave him the wrong answer. Oops.

InformationUnhappiness in relationships, according to Dr. Gary Chapman, is often due to the fact that we speak different love languages. Sometimes we don't understand our partner's requirements, or even our own. We all have a "love tank" that needs to be filled in order for us to express love to others, but there are different means by which our tank can be filled, and there are different ways that we can express love to others.

I mean, really people. I understand why someone would develop this. Honestly, I get it--green caretakers have a huge responsibility, in keeping the place looking nice and protecting...well, the green. And we should make it as easy as possible for them. Frankly, I think we're encouraging them to be soft--people in the same job a hundred years ago just pulled up those damn weeds by hand. Uphill both ways in the snow, y'know.

It seems that all (or nearly all) science has a downfall. And now we'll have herbicide-resistant weeds. Did no one see this coming? This is just like the dinosaurs changing sexes in Jurassic Park and breeding outside the lab. What was the line? "Life finds a way."

Well, maybe not that bad. But close. Who'd have thought we'd be over run by golf green grass?

Over the summer, I went to lunch with my mother a few times. Almost always Chinese food. That boggles my mind--when I was growing up, she flat refused to ever eat Chinese food. I don't know what happened.

Once, as we argued over the check, we cracked open our fortune cookies. Hers was something appropriately fortune-like.

Mine said "You will be successful."

I thought I was. Well, am. Anyway, I didn't think it was a "future" event. I mean, yes, I'd like to be successful in my future (in those things that are important to me), but I'd like for it to be a continuation of my current success. Not something new that I haven't experienced before.

Success is a personal thing, for me. A very large part of me doesn't care one bit if anyone else ever notices it. I don't need someone praising me for all I've done/accomplished.

That doesn't mean I don't want it now and again. There's a part of me (like in every human) that wants everyone to see it and acknowledge it. I want someone tell me they're proud of me, that whatever wonderful thing I've been granted is "great." There's nothing wrong with that.

I put my whole self into the things I do, and I like that be noticed sometimes. I guess, for as self-sufficient as I like to think I am (success-wise, at least), I'm not. That's okay, though. Humans weren't meant to do it all on their own, were they?

Reading through some old-ish emails this evening. Jason asked where the "Jayne" came from. Here was my response:

Honestly, out of my head. I got to playing around with pseudonyms last year, when I started writing my version of the "great American novel" (which was deleted within months because even I didn't care about the characters anymore--and really, my blogging was much better writing.). I wanna publish under a pseudonym for a very odd reason--so that when my mother reads this fabulous book by a new author, I can let her rave about it before springing it on her that I wrote it.

No, there's nothing in that statement that would suggest therapy, is there?Teehee...